


Supper at the War Table

by lyriumlovesong



Series: The Rabbit and The Lion [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumlovesong/pseuds/lyriumlovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freya brings her hard-working Commander a meal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supper at the War Table

“Andraste’s knickers, Cullen, you aren’t _still_ in here?”

Cullen Rutherford looked up from the war table to see Freya Lavellan, leader of the Inquisition, enter the war room. She was carrying a covered plate and a bottle of wine, looking simultaneously impressed and exasperated. She crossed the room and set them down next to him, then hopped backward to hoist herself up onto the table, swinging her legs playfully like a child in an over-large chair.

“Inquisitor,” he said, half grinning. “You know, if you keep using language like that, She may demote you.”

“Nah, I get to say whatever I want,” she replied, brushing a stray lock of dark auburn hair out of her eyes. “Perks of being the Herald. It helps that I started out a lowly, dirt-worshipping rabbit. Keeps Her expectations low.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he told her, his expression becoming serious. “I hate that term.”

“Whatever for?” asked Freya, feigning a look of surprised hurt with a hand on her chest. “Rabbits are _noble_ creatures. They’re nimble and smart, not to mention  _adorable_. Are you telling me you don’t find me adorable?”

Cullen looked back down at the war table and studied one of the markers intently, avoiding her gaze.

“That’s completely beside the point, Inquisitor. It’s not meant as a compliment when people say it.”

“Oooh, nice evasion! See, this is why I let you command my troops.” She gave him a playful punch on the arm. Cullen smirked and glanced up at her. She was still kicking her legs back and forth, watching him.

“Is that a roast I smell?” he asked, looking from her to the covered platter she’d brought.

“It is,” she answered, whisking the shining dome off the top and revealing a thick cut of beef with potatoes and vegetables, all slathered in a thick brown gravy. “Since you didn’t grace us with your presence at dinner, I thought I’d bring you some before the Iron Bull went back for thirds. And fourths. And probably fifths.”

Cullen chuckled at this.

“He just hates to see food wasted, that’s all,” he said, eyeing the meal hungrily. “I don’t suppose you brought cutlery?”

“I thought I’d just lend you one of my daggers,” Freya answered, shrugging. “It’s relatively clean. Just wipe off the darkspawn goo and it’ll be fine.”

She laughed at the face Cullen pulled, then whipped a fork and knife out of a rolled-up napkin she’d tucked into her belt.

“Here.”

Cullen held up the fork and watched it glinting in the firelight.

“Dinner fork,” he said, winking.

“Well remembered, Commander. But Skyhold doesn’t break out the fine silver just for little old me, so I’m fairly certain that’s the only kind we _ever_ have, unless Josephine allows someone to unlock the nice stuff for company.”

She looked behind her at the pieces laid out carefully on the war table, eying the spot where Cullen’s gaze had been trained before she walked in.

“Something new happening in Kirkwall?” she asked.

“They’ve asked for aid,” he replied, cutting into his roast. “I’d like to send soldiers, but we don’t have unlimited troops, as you’re aware. Leliana thinks we ought to just ignore it and concentrate on Corypheus instead, but I hesitate to leave them without help in destroying all that red lyrium...”

His voice trailed off, and he was staring at the war table again, thinking hard. He had frozen in the act of picking up a piece of the meat he’d just cut. Freya placed a hand over his.

“Enough work,” she said. “Eat, before that gets even colder. Let’s talk about something else.”

She pulled the cork out of the top of the wine bottle, then cast her gaze somewhat blankly around the table.

“Damn. I forgot goblets.” She paused, looking at the wine, then shrugged and took a swig.

Cullen smiled appreciatively, chewing. He swallowed the mouthful he’d been working on and reached for the bottle. She handed it over.

“I like that you don’t stand on ceremony,” he told her, raising the bottle to his lips. “It’s nice to be reminded that the Herald of Andraste is still just a human being.”

“ _Ir elvhen, lethallin_ ,” Freya replied, speaking her native tongue. Cullen flushed and nearly spit his mouthful of wine onto the map, not understanding her words but realizing his mistake at once.

“Maker’s breath, I... Inquisitor,” he stammered, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. It’s just a phrase, I didn’t mean to--”

Freya raised a hand, a gentle smile on her lips.

“It’s okay,” she told him, shaking her head. “Quit while you’re behind.”

Cullen’s face fell even further, and he ran a hand over the back of his head, a mannerism Freya recognized. She softened, reaching over to him again and squeezing his hand.

“Commander,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “ _Cullen_. It’s _really_ okay. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

He looked sideways at her and sighed.

“I always say the stupidest things when you’re around. _Only_ when you’re around. I swear, the rest of the time I’m not a complete idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot when I _am_ around.”

“If you can say _that_ with a straight face,” Cullen said, returning to his meal, “maybe you should have Josephine’s job.”

Freya laughed out loud at this, leaning back onto her palms.

“All of Thedas would be at war within a week,” she replied. She was looking at the ceiling now, and Cullen took the opportunity to let his eyes wander over her, following the line of her long neck down to her small breasts. She was such a wisp of a thing, and he thought to himself that it was probably part of the reason she was so quick in battle and well-suited to knifework. He’d heard Leliana mention that she had been a gifted dancer in her clan, and he imagined what she must look like moving her slender body to music. It was a lovely image.

He snapped back to reality as she spoke again, and he was relieved to see that she hadn’t yet looked down and caught him lost in thought with his gaze still trained on her bosom.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Yes, Inquisitor?” he replied, stabbing a potato on his fork. His heart was suddenly pounding a lot harder than usual, anticipating what she might be about to ask.

“Are you feeling all right? You seem… _tired_ lately.”

Her gaze was trained back on him again, her moss-green irises locked on his amber ones, searching there.

“Oh,” he said, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment at the question. “I... I haven’t been sleeping well.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but wasn’t the whole truth, either. The dreams had been getting progressively worse, more vivid. But he was determined only to trouble her with his secret if it was absolutely necessary, and at the moment, it didn’t seem so. “I just have a lot on my mind, and it’s cutting into my rest.”

She was still fixed on his eyes, which were red-rimmed and surrounded by dark circles. It certainly _looked_ like he’d been missing out on sleep. She broke their staring contest and reached for the wine bottle again.

“Fair enough. But you’d tell me if it was something more?”

“I… yes, of course I would.”

“Good.”

She took a long draw from the wine bottle and watched him eat his dinner for a moment. He took several bites, then looked up at her face again, this time studying the markings around her eyes.

“Is it in poor taste for me to ask you about your tattoos?” he asked her, looking hesitant.

“Probably according to some Dalish, yes,” she replied. “But I don’t mind. What do you want to know?”

“When did you get yours? And what do they mean?”

“Vallaslin are given to us when we come of age. I received mine shortly after my eighteenth birthday. It’s a sacred ceremony. Our Keeper applies the markings, and we’re not permitted to make any noise. If we cry, the ceremony is immediately stopped and we are deemed unready to take on adult responsibilities within the clan.”

“That seems harsh,” Cullen said, looking surprised.

“Harsher than teaching a thirteen year old boy to be a Templar?” Freya asked with a smirk.

“Point taken.”

“We each meditate before the ceremony and take the design of a deity within our religion. Mine is the mark of Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla. She was always the one that resonated with me most.”

“It's beautiful on you,” Cullen said, his expression one of sincerity as he looked at them. Now it was Freya’s turn to blush.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said. The two were silent then as Cullen finished his food. He set down the fork and knife with a gentle clinking of metal and put a hand appreciatively to his belly.

“Thanks for bringing that,” he said, looking satisfied. “I’d completely lost track of the time. I suppose I should probably get back to it.”

He made to reach for his stack of reports, but Freya put a hand out, her thin fingers barely wrapping halfway around his large forearm.

“Nope,” she said simply, shaking her head. “You’re all done with work for the night.”

Cullen opened his mouth to protest, but the elf cut him off.

“If you’re going to sit here and tell me you’re not getting enough sleep, I’m not going to let you stay holed up in this room all night. You need rest, Commander. I’m not telling you that you have to go to bed, seeing as the sun just went down. But you at least need a break tonight. Take a walk in the moonlight, read a book, visit Mother Giselle and recite the Chant. I don’t care what it is, but it’s not going to be any Inquisition shit. That’s an _order_.”

He could tell this conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Once Freya made up her mind about things, that was that. He sighed and took one last swig from the wine bottle, then handed it to Freya, who drained the last swallow.

“Come on, help me take these dishes back to the kitchen,” she told him, handing him the cutlery as she took the plate. “If anyone ambushes us on the way, you can put that dinner fork to good use.”

He shook his head, smiling as she led the way out of the war room.

“As you wish, Inquisitor.”

  
  



End file.
